Maritime Confessional, Pt. 1



The siren’s silent call. Hard to hear, but once intuited, impossible to forget. Imagine the scene, if you will – fully trussed to the prow of your tall ship, clutched to the breast of a wooden mermaid by strands of hemp, twisting in the salt air, you strain to hear the call. will it rise? Will your ear bend ’til your drums bleed and gums recede into the night, into the foggy, foggy night?

Tiara boom ti-aye!

Tiara boom ti-aye!

The siren’s searing scream. The stars went black, the air so cold, in a space no one can hear you and yet, the tears and questions, what is this folly, the maritime crucifiction, this rosy tender confession? The mermaid’s fine carved features betray no longing, no lying, no literate intimation of sympathy or tea. Does the tea steep, do the deep seas boil? Does a wine dank winsome engine sleep in the wine dark roiling ocean?Image


Everyone Leaves, Pt. 1

Everyone is always leaving.

I’m leaving today”.

“Tomorrow is my last day.”

In Mariah and the Big House, echoes drifting like in the air. Day after day, like a mantra. Yet no one every leaves. They disappear. One day, gone, no explanation.

Whatever happened to to that guy who changed his clothes 5 times a day? Before dinner, in the noon hour, after group (which he never attended), on the way to the medication window. Remember his red velvet tuxedo rhinestone edged lapels? Remember the silver  lame leisure suit? Or the shiny, shiny snakeskin jacket? Always with the dark sporty wraparound sunglasses, always with the velcro strap on comfort sandals. A grim paced ghost, thin, deep sunbaked wrinkles and creaky slow movement, and except for his crackling joints, he never emitted a sound, never made eye contact, never turned his head from side to side. But he did wear a fez once.Fez

Postcard from New, New Outer Dalmatia

Hello there! Greetings from Outer New, New Dalmatia. Radio silence for some time now, but compared to the metropolitan roar of Los Angeles, the life of the colonists must seem dreary dull-a-day lackstuff stuffs with the tedium in tropic thundershowers and blazing infernos of summer . It’s all true too, you know. During such an unrelenting heat one must  sequester beneath cheese-clothe and rice paper drapes. Lotus chiffon provides the relief from the glory of raw master sun, but the finely wove material is rare and troublesome to trade, as only tibetan coffee shot from the ass of the spotted yethi seems to provide a suitable barter item amongst the natives. But enough of this trivalia! Please write and fill me in on all the latest. PS Next up! Mosquitos of every stripe~

new new dalmatia

I Can See Through Water, & Still Swallow It. (Recipe 2)

Round 1. Eye of the tiger : blanched, peeled, and tossed in a sherry vinaigrette. Refreshing, invigorating, bringing a distinct optimistic sparkle to the palate.

Round 2. A splendid cocktail of like elements – taking the two longest perineal feathers of Hirundo rustica, muddle the scraped iridescent barbs of Progne subis and viscous mud of a newly dabbed barnyard swallow’s nest. A cacaphonous squall may result with too vigourous an approach, but with a delicate touch, the overriding sense of mania may subside.

Round 3. Cassi-opiated capric musk – don’t worry about the smell, you’ll get used to it. And don’t believe the initial panic, since a soothing swathe shall soon lull one to complacency. One may call this umami, though others have used terms including, the ineluctable modality of the visible or Hoc volo.


more pink, more love, more bakers dozen

I like it when you smile. 

You have such a nice smile. you should smile more.

Then i could see you happy.

That would be nice.

Nice for you, nice for me.

“Thanks.” I’m not really in the smiliest mood, but what the fuck, I still can laugh at shit. Especially a security guard in the ER, who appears to be making the moves on me.

I’ve been in this room for what, 12, 13, hours? No one to talk to anyhow, might as well try some weak humor, since an inevitable swing to utter despair is possible at any moment.

See, if you smile, you feel better.

I hope you get better. then i could see your smile more.

Are you for fucking real? Youre saying this to me, this smiley bullshit. Imagine, me, crunched into a hospital bed, in my hospital gown, put on backwards. I’m clutching the front closed over my neon pink bra and what used to be vivid acid yellow green underwear, now turned dingy, with corroding elastic and drooping ass.

What Im trying to say is, 

if you get better, maybe I could see you more?

Maybe I could get your phone number?

Really??? On what planet could you not notice that I’ve been hysterical and am in the ER with an unstable mind? How has that escaped your brain, no matter what it’s mass or lack thereof? Look, I’m not one for noticing these subtle pick up lines, but – maybe some other time. I just stare at him, unable to think of any answer that makes sense.

After a small eternity, he leaves, as an old security guard comes in the room. After the dude is gone, I lean over towards the new guard, who seems laid back.


Older guy cautiously looks my way.

“Can you come over here for a sec?”  He seems wary of my beckoning index finger. And suddenly I’m all too aware of what he sees. A crazy lady in a hospital bed, wild black hair in a huge tangled halo, backwards hospital gown, neon underwear, and large puffy red eyes. I’d be hesitant to come closer too. “I just want to ask you a question.” I try to look friendly. “That guy, Juan, is that his name?”

“Yeah….” He looks doubtful, and moves imperceptibly closer.

“Is he going to be here all night?”

“Yeah… why you ask?”

I sigh.

“He just bugs the shit out of me.”

The security guard busts out laughing. Then he looks at me with sympathy and says, “Dont pay any attention to him. He does that to everyone.”

I smile with him, and stop short of rolling my eyes as commiseration. He’s back to guards duty. I’ve smiled, shook my head . And rolled my up eyes up over the whole scene.

I shake my head and I roll my eyes and I shake my head and I rattle my brain and I roll my eyes and chatter my teeth and its enough to drive a poor boy what? Inane? Drive a poor what in blame insane? A poor boy? OK, a something insane. What a pain, what a chill, what a pill, what a spill what a thrill goodness gracious great balls of fire.

Who was that the guy with the rooster atop his piano? The big old chanticleer who would strut around and make a show with the piano man who married his 11 year old niece.(The man’s, not the rooster’s). Is that how the story went? I wonder what happened to that bastard of a rooster. I could imagine him parading around his iridescent tail-feathers, crowing and puffing up with the joy of all the attention – the masses screaming for the piano man. Even the vibrations of the strings thrumming up through lid o’ the piano. Musta been an existential sort of heaven for a vain barnyard creature.

I am familiar with the type. I had this one, classic rooster, shiny scarab green tail, red body, bright gold feathers acrost his long neck, and a glorious crimson comb and wattles. He was a son of a bitch. When he was a little cheeping peeper chick, I named him Douglas Fairbanks. I was 10, and with a mail order catalogue, ordered up a dozen exotic chicken. A bakers dozen, actually, cause that was the special of the season. And I named them all after starts of the silent silver screen. I hoped the exotic breed chickens would grow into the embodiment of the glittering stars of DeMille and Sennet’s studios – or at least what my child mind imagined for the pantheon of silver demigods. Douglas would emote the dash and chivalry of days long past.

But no. Douglas Fairbanks grew into a real bastard. Theda, the egyptian chicken, all right angles and interesting colors, just like some hidden hieroglyphs from a lost tomb in Giza – she always flapped and shrieked and ran away if anything came near her. Strangely, I cant even recall what the others looked like – Mary Miles Minter, Gloria Swanson, Ms Pickford (I couldnt have two Marys),Thelma Todd, Mable Normand, Marion Davies, Norma Talmadge, Lillian Gish, Clara Bow, Greta Garbo, and norma shearer. All a jumble of pretty color and bland clucking. I’d hoped for a deep throated Garbo and the red one, the clara wasnt a coquette at all, and seemed downright dour until the neighbor’s doberman, Duke, snuck over one night and ate her.  My bakers dozen no longer.”

How many hours had I been in here. 12, 13?